Hateful to me as are the gates of hell, Is he who, hiding one thing in his heart, Utters another.
A hunter of shadows, himself a shade.
Thus have the gods spun the thread for wretched mortals: that they live in grief while they themselves are without cares; for two jars stand on the floor of Zeus of the gifts which he gives, one of evils and another of blessings.
Nothing shall I, while sane, compare with a friend.
Thou shalt not take moochers into thy hut?
And overpowered by memory Both men gave way to grief. Priam wept freely For man - killing Hector, throbbing, crouching Before Achilles' feet as Achilles wept himself, Now for his father, now for Patroclus once again And their sobbing rose and fell throughout the house.